A Sprig of Lilac
by Sweeney Agonistes
Summary: A devastating blow; an attempt to stay upright; a capsizing; and a sprig of lilac for remembrance. Part of the One Wise Woman realm.
1. Section I

A/N: A tale that would have been much worse without the wisdom of Zsenya over at the Sugar Quill. My lack of HTML is not her fault. Do go there to see the nice italics and things that really ought to be here... Please assume all usual disclaimers.  
  
  
  
Now that lilacs are in bloom  
  
She has a bowl of lilacs in her room  
  
And twists one in her fingers while she talks.  
  
"Ah, my friend, you do not know, you do not know  
  
What life is, you who hold it in your hands"...  
  
-T.S. Eliot, "Portrait Of A Lady"  
  
I entered the Hogsmeade flat and sniffed the air, which was redolent of garlic. Theron had either prepared dinner or decided he was going to be attacked by a vampire.  
  
I went into the kitchen. For some reason, he had fixed pasta, and there was a basket with garlic bread. Not our usual fare, but a welcome change today. There was also a vase with lilacs in it. A sentimental touch - that was Theron. He was not in the kitchen to see my appreciation of his handiwork, though.  
  
I poked my head in the living room. There he was - asleep on the couch, still dressed in his work robes. I looked down at him. He had not changed much since we were young - stately, austere gray highlights at his temples and gentle laugh lines were the only physical signs of his middle age. He was sixty-two, I was fifty-six - the thirty years we had been married were wonderful. Theron had continued in his job at St. Mungo's as a "researcher"; I was still the professor of Transfiguration at Hogwarts. There were no children, although not through lack of trying. My younger brother Maimonides had married his Slytherin prefect and had a son, Meleagrant; my older sister Medea had joined the Department of Mysteries like her husband Finn, who was an Unspeakable. We all gathered once a month for dinner as a way of keeping us all together. Every now and then, Albus would join us - his duties as Headmaster were lonely, and he liked to keep up with his only son, especially in such parlous times as these. It helped that I held Albus's old position and that we were old friends; we spent a lot of time together, playing chess and talking. Talking about He Who Must Not Be Named. He dominated much of our lives - we worried, talked…did everything in our power to keep our students from worrying about him. They did anyway.  
  
Of course, Albus's Order worked quietly at their jobs - as always - and obtained intelligence that could be used against the Death Eaters and their master. Theron and I helped out with it as much as we could; we were involved primarily for our nephew's sake. Meleagrant had been a Death Eater, but had finally left their service. He was still very volatile, but too shaken by the atrocities he had both seen and committed to even consider returning to his old lifestyle. Albus had asked Theron and me to be in the Order to give Meleagrant some reassurance and support. Theron also used his job to provide his father with information about the latest tricks the Death Eaters were using to torture and maim. Theron was quietly crafty - just like his father.  
  
He woke then and stretched, smiling at me. "Hello, Minerva-girl."  
  
"How was your day?"  
  
"Quiet," he answered. "No information, no new patients, everything on the up-and-up. Blessedly quiet."  
  
I laughed. I knew that quiet was never what he truly wanted. Knowing that I knew, he stood and embraced me. I let myself relax and did not let myself think about the essays that I had to grade tonight. I simply enjoyed the feeling of being with my other half.  
  
He said, "Pasta for dinner tonight."  
  
"I saw," I said into his shoulder.  
  
He extended an arm into the kitchen. "Shall we?"  
  
I nodded.  
  
Amid the filling of plates, he said, "Maimonides and Demetria are coming over tomorrow with  
  
Meleagrant, and so is Finn - Medea is ill, he said."  
  
I stopped with one hand over the basket of bread. "Can't come - Albus and I are working late  
  
tomorrow, and I'm not coming home tomorrow night."  
  
He said lightly, "You'll miss a grand dinner."  
  
I took a bite of my pasta. "If this is anything to be judged by, I certainly will."  
  
Theron said, "We can reschedule if you want to be there…"  
  
I raised a hand and said wryly, "It's fine, Theron. I imagine the house- elves will put out something palatable for once - never mind the numerous feasts they've managed to come up with…"  
  
He grinned at me. "Oh, Minerva."  
  
We ate. And then we spoke of music by the fire over hot chocolate - a tradition inherited from Albus - and then we went to bed. A normal and beautiful evening.  
  
And the last words that Theron and I ever spoke to each other were brief "I love you's" the following morning.  
  
~~~~  
  
When lilacs last in the dooryard bloom'd,  
  
And the great star early droop'd in the western sky in the night,  
  
I mourn'd, and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.  
  
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,  
  
Lilac blooming perennial and drooping star in the west,  
  
And thought of him I love.  
  
-Walt Whitman  
  
The last Hufflepuff scurried out of my classroom; I went to my own office, gathered my materials, and reported to Albus's office. We sat down and worked silently over intelligence reports. After about three hours, he broke the silence. "Theron is having the rest of the family over for dinner tonight?"  
  
I put down my quill and stretched. "Yes, with the exception of Medea."  
  
"Are you ready to break for rations yourself?"  
  
My stomach gave my answer.  
  
He chuckled and rang for a house-elf, who bowed deferentially and popped away to fulfill the order. A painting of a past headmistress awoke from her snooze and said, "Albus, dear, someone's at the bottom of the stairs."  
  
He nodded, both at the portrait and at me. I stuffed the papers into a folder and took it with me to the alcove in the corner - it was only visible to those who knew of its existence.  
  
A moment later, young James Potter entered. Greetings were exchanged, and Potter lost no time in getting down to business. "Sir - we're desperate - is there anything we can do for the effort?"  
  
Albus said firmly, "You may continue doing well in your classes. Knowledge is power, Mr. Potter - keep learning."  
  
"Nothing more - immediate?"  
  
"Did you have something in mind?" Albus looked at him keenly.  
  
I watched Potter; he seemed to be hesitating. He finally blurted out, "Sir, if we just monitored the Slytherin common room - "  
  
Albus held up a hand. "Mr. Potter, that is out of the question."  
  
"But, sir - "  
  
"Mr. Potter. People only become trustworthy by being trusted. I will not have any student in this school feel like they are being alienated by the faculty. Learning is our purpose here, not acts of espionage and - if you will forgive the expression - witch hunts."  
  
Potter said nothing.  
  
Albus seemed to soften. "Go back to your dormitory, Mr. Potter - you have a big day tomorrow." A Quidditch challenge - not one of the regular matches - was being held after school tomorrow in response to a challenge issued to Potter by the Ravenclaw captain. It was the cause for much speculation among the students.  
  
Potter brightened. "Yes, sir!" I couldn't help but smile at his enthusiasm - the faculty was secretly as excited about it as the students were.  
  
Albus said, "Between ourselves, I understand that Ravenclaw is having some problems with one of their Chasers."  
  
Potter nodded. "I've heard something to that effect - we've been practicing accordingly."  
  
"The best of luck to you, then." Albus rose and escorted Potter out. While he was gone, a house-elf popped in with a tray. I set it on the desk and waited for Albus to come back. When he did, he was smiling almost wistfully. I said, "Are you going to invite him to join the Order?"  
  
"I think so," he said meditatively. As he did not elaborate, I did not press the subject.  
  
We ate and worked straight through until around midnight. I finally brought my nose out of my papers and stretched; my back let out a resounding crackle. Albus said, "Time for bed, I think."  
  
We carefully stowed away our papers, and I left, feeling exhausted.  
  
I made my way down the dark, deserted corridors, lost in my thought - in my mind, I was still going over those reports. I -  
  
A sudden, violent chill ran down my spine, and I stopped an instant before I ran smack into a suit of armor. It was as though I had suddenly been thrown in to the lake in December and shaken mercilessly by the giant squid. I rested a hand on the wall, trying to catch my breath.  
  
After a few moments, I was able to continue. I said under my breath, "Kneazle running over my grave - that's all."  
  
And I went to bed.  
  
~~~~  
  
O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?  
  
And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?  
  
And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?  
  
-Walt Whitman  
  
I was in the middle of the first class of the day when Remus Lupin stuck his head in the door. "Professor?"  
  
I stopped mid-sentence. "Yes, Mr. Lupin?"  
  
"The Headmaster wants to see you right away."  
  
I looked around; I had a first-year class. "What class are you in right now, Mr. Lupin?"  
  
He looked at the floor. "I - er, I'm just coming back from the hospital wing."  
  
Lupin did look a bit peaky - and the period of the full moon had just ended. Of course. "We're just covering beetles - would you mind watching them?" I hated to ask him to do it after he had been ill, but he was a talented Transfiguration student, and he was very good with the younger ones.  
  
The offer seemed to be just the thing to cheer him up. He smiled and said, "Of course not, Professor."  
  
I fixed the first-years with one of my better looks and said, "This is Remus Lupin. He will be in charge of the class while I am away. He is a sixth-year and knows much about both beetles and buttons; if you have any questions, ask him. Carry on as usual." I gave Lupin one of my rare smiles - he was a good young man, in spite of the scrapes he got into with his friends - and left, heading for Albus's office.  
  
Past the gargoyle, up the stairs, knocking on the door. It opened, but it wasn't Albus who opened it. It was a Ministry official. "Mrs. Dumbledore?"  
  
An echo of last night's chill cast delicate, insidious tendrils across my back. Nobody ever called me Mrs. Dumbledore. And that meant -  
  
"Yes, that's me," I said.  
  
"Sit," the Ministry official said, not unkindly. It was only then that I noticed Albus in the same alcove that I had secreted myself in last night. He came out of the shadows; the look on his face frightened me. He was stern, stiff - but not like he was when he was dealing with the Ministry.  
  
It was more like he was fighting for control.  
  
He came and stood beside me, resting a hand on my shoulder. His tight grip felt worse than the fingers of that cold chill. He would not look me in the eye.  
  
The Ministry official looked down at some notes and cleared his throat. "Mrs. Dumbledore, it is my sad duty to inform you that there was an incident at your flat in Hogsmeade last night. All those inside were killed by Death Eaters, and the Dark Mark was seen above the building. The victims have been identified as Maimonides McGonagall, Demetria McGonagall, Meleagrant McGonagall, Finn Finnigan, and Theron Dumbledore. On behalf of the Ministry, let me extend my condolences." He proffered a hand.  
  
I wanted to move to lift my hand. I tried. I could not. All I could do was sit. I did not move.  
  
From a distance, I heard Albus say, "Thank you, Perrine. I'd walk you out, but under the circumstances - "  
  
The Ministry man nodded and said, "Quite understandable." He left.  
  
Albus knelt in front of me, put his hands on my shoulders. "Minerva?"  
  
I forced an answer. "Yes?"  
  
Blue eyes - like Theron's - searching, probing until I was awash in a sea of blue. I fell, was falling -  
  
The eyes disengaged as he brought a hand up to them.  
  
I stopped.  
  
He was kneeling in a penitent sort of fashion, head bowed, face covered. A penitent. What did he have to be sorry for?  
  
Oh.  
  
His son was dead.  
  
And then I felt it - no more numbness. Those cold tendrils turned to boiling, strangling claws, and a wild, keening wail escaped me, and we sat there on the floor of his office, drowning in a roiling sea of grief.  
  
~~~~  
  
In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-wash'd palings,  
  
Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,  
  
With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,  
  
With every leaf a miracle -- and from this bush in the dooryard,  
  
With delicate-color'd blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,  
  
A sprig with its flower I break.  
  
-Walt Whitman  
  
One week later, we were at Weathervane - the ancestral Dumbledore home. We stood out back, down by the river. Theron was interred near his mother.  
  
We had put my brother and his family to rest yesterday; Medea and I had done the same for Finn the day before. And now we stood, sun shining on us, the whole Dumbledore contingent behind us.  
  
A tap came on my shoulder. I turned, and there was Aunt Alyce, who had welcomed me the first time I ever set foot in Weathervane. She hugged me, and I managed to reciprocate. After that initial eruption, I had shed no more tears.  
  
I couldn't feel anything.  
  
I put up with her sympathy - with all of their sympathies in turn - until it was only Albus and myself left.  
  
He leaned forward, took a lilac from the grave and handed it to me. "For remembrance," he said.  
  
I took it, looked at it. And with it came the memories of the lilacs on the kitchen table that last night, and the way their soft scent permeated the flat. I felt tears coming -  
  
I stopped them.  
  
Albus put his arm around me, and we went back up to the house. 


	2. Section II

O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?  
  
And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,  
  
To adorn the burial-house of him I love?  
  
- Walt Whitman  
  
It was difficult to act normally for the first week or so, but after that, it got easier. I taught classes, graded papers. I did not go to meetings of the Order. I knew Albus was watching me, but after I made more of an attempt to socialize with the rest of the faculty during meals, his not- quite-surreptitious glances stopped. Even the Fearful Foursome of Potter, Black, Lupin, and Pettigrew left me alone – they behaved sufficiently enough that I did not have to call them into my office for any reason.  
  
Medea and I did not speak or write to each other – the pain was still too fresh. I did not want to think about Maimonides or Demetria or Meleagrant. Especially Meleagrant – if I did, I might blame him, and none of this was his fault. I focused instead on Theron.  
  
And every night, I would stare at a picture I had of him that had been taken two years ago. He was climbing an oak tree out behind Weathervane, and he would perch on a branch and smile. Then he would hang upside down – aided by a charm – and act like a monkey. It was a dear picture. A picture that almost made me believe that he was still here.  
  
I would look into the picture and it was like I was transported into the world that was Weathervane in the summer. The smell of the flowers blooming on the terrace, the low, mellow droning of the bees, the laughter of the current generation of Dumbledore children and the sudden noises of their Exploding Snap cards. It was idyllic. It was much better than my Hogwarts world.  
  
As one could imagine, I did not sleep very much.  
  
It got to the point that I stopped going to meals – I was not hungry, so why should I go? I stayed out of Albus's way; I did not want to face his questions or his blinding empathy. I fulfilled my responsibilities as a teacher, and that was the only thing that mattered. The only one besides Albus who ever looked at me with one of those piercing, omniscient glances was a Slytherin Potions prodigy – Severus Snape. I soon began to avoid his stare in class as well.  
  
The lilac that Albus had given me stayed alive for a good long while. I put a preservative charm on it – it was representative of the last time I saw him alive. Between the lilac and the picture, I stayed off in a dream world most of the time – a world where my Theron was still alive, still here. A world where no Death Eaters existed; a world that was Weathervane in all its summer glory. It was a kind world.  
  
And then the charm on the lilac wore off.  
  
~~~~  
  
I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,  
  
And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them…  
  
-Walt Whitman  
  
I settled in that night to look at my picture, as usual. My fingers drifted over to where I knew the lilac to be – but it collapsed under my touch.  
  
It was dead.  
  
Just like Theron.  
  
I began to cast every spell I knew to try to bring it back, but eventually had to stop. I stopped because I realized that nothing would work. Nothing would bring it back.  
  
And with that knowledge, the floodgates opened. And I came to a decision.  
  
I had spent some time with an Israeli Potions master a few years ago, and he had taught me a few very interesting things from the Hebraic wizarding tradition.  
  
One of those things was the Sitra Achra.  
  
The Sitra Achra. The Other Side. The dark side, hell.  
  
Death.  
  
I pocketed the picture of Theron and slipped quickly down to the dungeons. I broke into the Potions supply room and got my ingredients. Then I proceeded to the kitchens.  
  
It was in the middle of that short period of time that the house-elves had between nightly cleanings and breakfast preparations. I would have to be quick.  
  
I found myself an available cauldron and began to work. It had been a while since I had been around a cauldron, but I remembered all of the steps necessary to my chosen concoction. Sooner than I imagined, the contents of the cauldron shone an iridescent, angry dark gray. I extinguished the fire, dipped a flagon into the cauldron, and, with one last look at Theron in his tree, drank.  
  
There was a blinding flash of white – the coming of the White, I thought illogically – and then it was though I saw everything through a gray, hazily sinister film. I saw a road, flanked by twisted, gnarled trees. Everything was in shades of gray and black. And then it was as though I had traveled through an outdoor Floo network, and I zoomed up to a figure hooded in black. The mangled branches cast pestilent, narrow shadows on my face in prisoner's stripes, but not on the face of the hooded figure. I couldn't see the face. I put a hand up to the hood, and nothing happened – I couldn't even feel breath escaping from the nostrils or the mouth. And then those cold fingers gripped my shoulders, and I reached up and pulled down the hood –  
  
Theron's face greeted me. Only it wasn't his face, not as I knew it. Flesh was rotting off his cheekbones, and he grinned at me in a way that made me want to scream and turn and flee – but I couldn't. I could only stand there and scream silently.  
  
And then I felt a real hand on my shoulder, and I turned, and there was Tom- Riddle-turned-Dark-Lord, grinning at me just like Theron had, except he was alive, and he was going to kill me –  
  
Dimly, I heard a shout, as though from another world – which, in a way, it was – and I thought it was Albus's voice. "Minerva!"  
  
I turned my head away from the sound – perhaps Tom Riddle would kill me, but it would be better than returning – and if I gave him information about the Order, then maybe he could restore Theron to me.  
  
Someone from that other world picked me up and began to run.  
  
I came back just enough to look up and see half-moon glasses and haunted blue eyes.  
  
~~~~  
  
Solitary the thrush,  
  
The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,  
  
Sings by himself a song.  
  
-Walt Whitman  
  
When I fully returned to myself, Albus was sitting by my bedside, reading. I could see the title – Guide For The Perplexed. When I looked at the author's name, it all came back to me in a flash, and I closed my eyes again.  
  
The author's name was Maimonides. Or, as the back cover stated his real name to be, Moses ben Maimon. Not my Maimonides.  
  
When I opened my eyes again, Albus was looking at me over the rims of his spectacles. His face was closed to me – but not foreboding. I felt nothing when I looked at him other than a sense of exhaustion.  
  
"Hello, Minerva," he said.  
  
I said nothing.  
  
"You've been – not with us – for a while."  
  
I didn't speak.  
  
"A week."  
  
Nothing.  
  
And then something in his face changed. The bridge of his nose seemed to heighten, his face became more craggy, and the room went dark, and the shadows of the trees marked me again. And then he, too, gave me that smile that chilled me to the bone. I screamed. He was neither Tom Riddle nor Theron, and if he got me – then that would be the end.  
  
His mouth opened, but instead of the harsh laughter I expected, he let out something more anguished. "Madam Pomfrey!"  
  
And despite my best efforts, she managed to force-feed me some foul potion – poison, I was sure. And then everything went dark again.  
  
~~~~  
  
O liquid and free and tender!  
  
O wild and loose to my soul -- O wondrous singer!  
  
You only I hear -- yet the star holds me, (but will soon depart,)  
  
Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.  
  
-Walt Whitman  
  
When I awoke the next time, he was still there. No more Maimonides for him – this time it was a slim book entitled Prufrock, and Other Observations. Nothing by anyone named Maimonides or Theron or anything like that.  
  
So I could keep my eyes open. And I did.  
  
After a while, he sighed and put it down. Then he saw me. But instead of closing up like last time, he smiled slightly – not at all overbearing. I was grateful. There was only so much sunshine that I could deal with at the moment. My guts felt poisoned, my mouth was on fire, and I knew that any word I spoke would come out as a raw, bristly croak. I was not in the mood for anything remotely jolly, and Albus obliged. "Good morning," he said, calm.  
  
I grunted, then coughed. He handed me a cup of water, and when my fingers fumbled and threatened to drop it, he held it to my lips and helped me drink. I coughed once more, and then said, "Good morning."  
  
I knew that he would question me about what I had done. I did not feel like defending myself or my actions. I dreaded the next words that he spoke.  
  
"Puddlemere won the League Cup," he said.  
  
"Really?" They had been doing well. I remembered that.  
  
He nodded. "They played the Wasps – flattened them."  
  
I smiled – it felt odd. "Good." Neither of us had any great love for the Wimbourne Wasps.  
  
I looked around me – I was not in the hospital wing. "Where is this?"  
  
He said, "My chambers."  
  
"And who is teaching my classes?"  
  
"I am, starting tomorrow."  
  
"And – how long – " I couldn't say it. He answered my question, understanding my hesitation.  
  
"Ten days. Today is Sunday."  
  
"How long will I be here?"  
  
He cleared his throat. "You will leave here tomorrow afternoon."  
  
"And then where will I go?" I tried to keep a plaintive note out of my voice, but I did not succeed.  
  
He said, "I don't know."  
  
I closed my eyes again. He would leave me for those trees. I knew it. But with a firm, anxious sort of resolve, he said, "But I'll be there with you."  
  
In those words, I heard the hurt that gave him the determination with which he spoke. I knew that I had hurt him because I had shaken him off, had retreated into my own little Weathervane world that was his before it ever was mine. Without him, I would not have had that Weathervane world – or Theron.  
  
We had been friends for years, Albus and I. He had been my Head of House, and I had been his Head Girl. When I had nowhere else to turn, I went to him, and even if he couldn't solve it all, he would at least listen and share my burdens. And after so many years, after so many confidences shared, I had hurt him by refusing to share this last and most grievous burden.  
  
I wanted to grasp his hand, beg for his forgiveness, but the newer, colder Minerva that I had erected these past few weeks would not let me.  
  
"All right," I said. 


	3. Section III

"I would think of the blown lilac, and the Happy Valley. These things were permanent, they could not be dissolved. They were memories that cannot hurt. All this I resolved in my dream…We would not talk of Manderley, I would not tell my dream. For Manderley was ours no longer. Manderley was no more."  
  
-Daphne DuMaurier, Rebecca  
  
  
  
The next morning before classes started, Albus walked with me down to Hogsmeade. I was upright in a wheelchair; he pushed me, uncharacteristically silent. When the terrain grew rough, he quietly cast a levitation charm, and I was simply floated the rest of the way to the flat.  
  
The flat.  
  
Albus knocked on the door, and I half expected Theron to open it – but not my Theron; the Theron under the hood…  
  
Instead, a woman who bore a striking resemblance to Madam Pomfrey stood in the threshold, looking down at me. "Hello, Albus."  
  
Albus said, "A pleasure, Polly." He rested a hand on my shoulder. "Minerva, this is Polly Pomfrey – Poppy's sister. She'll be staying with you during the day, and I'll be by in the afternoons and evenings." I looked up at him, and he squeezed my shoulder gently. "I've got to get up to classes – you'll be fine." And with a smile at us both, he left.  
  
Polly Pomfrey said briskly, "Well, I suppose we'd better get you inside." But there was something extra to that briskness – something that told me that she knew that re-entering the flat would not be easy for me.  
  
Businesslike, she wheeled me into the guest bedroom; the furnishings in there had been rearranged – on Albus's order, no doubt. The chair that had previously sat in the corner was now by the bed, and the bed was positioned by the window so the occupant could look out on the street. A bookshelf that had not been there previously was by the door, heavily stacked with Muggle literature.  
  
I told Polly that I was tired, and I wished to take a nap. She settled me into bed, and settled herself in the chair with a book. She was efficient, and anything but effusive. She did not press me about what had happened, and I was grateful for that. As I had not slept very much the previous night, I made up for lost time during that day.  
  
A door slamming woke me up. I glanced at the clock; the hands pointed to six, night, and Albus, respectively. I heard voices in the front room, and then another door slammed, and then he came in my room. He looked calm – again. "How was your day?"  
  
"Fine," I said. "How did the classes go?"  
  
"Smoothly. I told them that you had requested a leave of absence, and that you would be back soon."  
  
"You didn't give them a fixed date?"  
  
"No, I did not." And there was that hint of a tone in his voice that forbade further questioning. I fell silent.  
  
After a moment, he said, "Are you hungry?"  
  
"Slightly."  
  
He got up and went to the kitchen. I heard various clangings of pots and pans, and in a few minutes, he came back in with pork chops and a salad. "They should be remotely palatable," he said. I took a bite; they were.  
  
We ate in silence.  
  
He cleared away, and then he said, "Shall I read to you?"  
  
It would prevent us having to talk to each other. "Please."  
  
He went to the bookshelf and pulled out a slim, leather-bound book. "This one ought to suit."  
  
I looked at that bookshelf. "These are yours, are they not?"  
  
"I thought you might enjoy some of them."  
  
I stared at the wall.  
  
He cleared his throat. "This is Rebecca, by Daphne DuMaurier. Chapter One. Last night I dreamt I went to Manderley again. It seemed to me I stood by the iron gate leading to the drive, and for a while I could not enter, for the way was barred to me. …"  
  
His voice washed over me like a drop of water creating smooth, even ripples in a quiet pond, and I was soon asleep again.  
  
Until I, too, was traveling down the long road to Manderley, and I tried to get in, but those branches barred the way, and then the Dark Lord was there again with his smile, and this time, I heard the heavy breathing, and I screamed.  
  
Someone was shaking me gently by the shoulders. I heard that voice break in its rhythm and start saying my name, over and over and over –  
  
And then my world changed from black and white to small circles of black within a wider sea of blue, and then Albus's face came into my sight, and my relief was so great that I began to weep.  
  
The blue sea glittered with me.  
  
Eventually, after a good long while, I went to sleep again.  
  
~~~~  
  
'My nerves are bad to-night. Yes, bad. Stay with me.  
  
'Speak to me. Why do you never speak? Speak.  
  
'What are you thinking of? What thinking? What?  
  
'I never know what you are thinking. Think.'  
  
I think we are in rats' alley  
  
Where the dead men lost their bones.  
  
-T.S. Eliot, The Waste Land, "A Game Of Chess"  
  
  
  
For a while, things were calm. I awakened about halfway through the night. Albus was reading again – Rebecca had been tossed aside for Chaucer. A small smile played on his face, and for a moment he was the Albus he had been before all of this happened – the lines of his face had lifted slightly, and his general mien seemed lighter. It was incredible what something as simple as a story managed to do for him – he lost himself, left reality completely.  
  
I envied him.  
  
I watched him for a while. Watching him made me leave for a while, too.  
  
He rested the book on his lap and let out a small yawn; I had not seen him so unguarded since the funeral.  
  
The funeral.  
  
I shocked both of us out of our respective reveries with a sharp intake of breath. Albus looked up, startled; his own façade dropped down in front of him again. I could see it. "Hello, Minerva."  
  
"Hello."  
  
Albus looked over at the door. "Can I get you something?"  
  
"No, thank you."  
  
"Would you be opposed to a game of chess, then?"  
  
Chess. Something idle, but not too idle. Something that would occupy the most important levels of my mind, prevent me from thinking about anything else. "A game of chess would be nice."  
  
He helped me into my wheelchair with that same sort of innate grace that he always had about him, minus the feeling of authority that came with it. More and more, I was seeing him as a tired old man. He was not old, could not be old. He was reinforcing the fact that Theron –  
  
No. I would not think it.  
  
He settled me in the kitchen, wheeling me up to the table, where a board and pieces were set up. My black pieces were closest to me, and the bishops turned and bowed in greeting. I raised a hand in response.  
  
Albus sat down across from me, extending a finger for his king to shake. After the necessary salutations were completed, we began. It started off slowly – my mind was rusty, and he was cautious, as usual. He always sounded out his opponent's strategy before finding the best way to strike, and then he would attack mercilessly. As the game picked up, however, he seemed a bit more subdued than usual; perhaps it was because I was more subdued than usual. My style consisted more of a full assault. When the front lines were weakened, I would find the weakest spots and take full advantage of them. In other words, his style was that of a fencer, and mine was that of a phalanx. We took an equal number of games off of each other. Tonight, however, he won fairly easily. He did not say anything, only put up the board and pieces. And then he turned on the radio. The WWN always played Muggle music during the watches of the night, and tonight was no exception. Tonight it was Mozart, but nothing painful – just a soothing clarinet concerto.  
  
He helped me situate myself in one of the armchairs and put himself in the other, and for a while we listened, submerging ourselves. The music had a soporific quality, and it was not long before I fell asleep.  
  
~~~~  
  
(Slowly twisting the lilac stalks)  
  
"You let it flow from you, you let it flow,  
  
And youth is cruel, and has no remorse  
  
And smiles at situations which it cannot see."  
  
-T.S. Eliot, "Portrait Of A Lady"  
  
  
  
My days fell into a pattern. I slept all day under the watchful eyes of Polly Pomfrey and awoke when Albus walked in the door. He would make dinner, and he would answer any questions I had about classes that day. He would read to me, and I would fall asleep for a while. I would wake up around three every morning, and we would silently go to the chessboard. He always won.  
  
After two days, Albus made me begin walking again. The potion had shut down my nervous system and destroyed the synapses that made connections from the limbs to the brain, and it was not easy to get my legs back under me. Leaning heavily on him, and against my better judgment, we circumnavigated the flat over and over. I nearly fell many times, but he was always there with a steady arm.  
  
His silence bothered me. He almost always hummed or sang to himself while he did mindless things such as our walking, but he did not do so now. The only sounds in the flat were my painful, ponderous steps and the unbearably loud ticking of the grandfather clock.  
  
When he knew that someone needed to talk about something, he remained silent. It was as if he knew that it would be easier for the other person to instigate conversation. When it seemed as though the other was loath to begin, he would often ask a gentle leading question. But this silence – this silence was different. This silence was bewildered. This silence was hurt. He was always gentle, never reproachful – but it was there. I wanted to talk to him. I really did. But I did not. I would let my most pertinent injuries heal first, and then move on to the next ones.  
  
At the end of that week, I could walk on my own. In two more days, I could walk normally without the assistance of a cane. I still suffered from hallucinations every now and then. Albus never said so, but I knew that he did not want to let me back into the classroom until he was fairly sure that there would be no more. According to the Israeli Potions master, it would be another week. And so I paced the flat at night, not able to sit still. I could not concentrate enough to read. I had not been out of the flat since Albus had brought me down. I paced while Albus read with his feet tucked under him.  
  
And then one night, just after midnight, I had another hallucination. Instead of Tom Riddle coming for me, it was Albus. Albus stood over me, holding a dead and blackened lilac, and asked me in a thundering voice why I let him sit and grieve alone. Why I never let him talk to me. How I dared to let Death Eater spawn like my nephew in the same house as his son. He reached for me, and then he turned into a dementor –  
  
And I ran for the kitchen and I got a knife out of the drawer. No more of this. No more. I shrieked and ran at Albus. I felt him catch my wrist as I raised it over my head. He twisted it, and the knife fell out. Kill me, I said. Just kill me.  
  
"Minerva," he said. "Theron is dead. You are not."  
  
My adrenaline level fell sharply. My vision cleared. I crumpled onto the sofa. I bowed my head and began to cry.  
  
I felt a weight drop beside me. Two arms found their way around me, and Albus drew me to him.  
  
And then he began to hum quietly.  
  
It took me a moment to realize it. When I did, I began to laugh through my tears. I could talk to him again. It was all right. I recognized the tune as the middle movement – the painfully gentle adagio – of Cherrytree's Fifth. The piece my quartet had been playing the night I met Theron. It fit the moment's mood, and my tears slowly stopped as I listened, mentally adding the harmonies of the various parts.  
  
When he finished, he was quiet. I could almost hear him composing the words that I knew would come. And then he said, "Minerva, I won't ask you why you tried to end your life. I won't ask you why you did not come to me to talk. Those are invalid questions. Theron is dead, you are not, and you need to carry on. Don't make his death mean nothing. Don't make the deaths of the rest of your family mean nothing. If you and I do not remember, then no one will. Minerva, don't – " There was a small hitch in his voice, and he said, voice overflowing with pain, "Don't leave me alone."  
  
And as I realized how much he had depended on me ever since I had been made a prefect, and how hurt he truly was when I tried to kill myself, tears came to my eyes, his hold on me tightened, and he, too, began to shed tears.  
  
And there we were, in the watches of the night, connecting and reconnecting by the light of the fire, while the world inhaled and exhaled around us.  
  
~~~~  
  
Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well,  
  
For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands -- and this for his dear sake,  
  
Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,  
  
There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.  
  
-Walt Whitman  
  
  
  
I strode down the length of my classroom just in time to see Sirius Black throw a Filibuster Firework at Severus Snape on the other side of the room. I quickly drew my wand, halted its trajectory, and snuffed it neatly. "Five points from Gryffindor, Mr. Black, and detention tomorrow night. You will see me after class."  
  
The entire class looked at me, jaws hanging – with one exception. Young Snape was giving me a calculating look, but not an entirely unfriendly one. I paused on my way up to my desk. "What's the matter with you all? You look like you've never seen your teacher before."  
  
Eyes blinked. "Does anyone have anything to say?"  
  
Lily Evans raised one timid hand. I nodded at her. "Yes?"  
  
She said softly, "Welcome back."  
  
That gave me pause. I stood there for a moment, looking at them all – those faces I had seen in the halls and in my classroom for the past five and a half years. I had watched these students grow and change. Some days it seemed like they knew nothing at all, and some days – like today – these children showed astonishingly astute signs of adulthood.  
  
I said, "Thank you, Miss Evans." And I gave her a brief smile.  
  
It was then that I saw the lilac left on my desk with a note under it in Albus's handwriting. The note read, For remembrance. Welcome back.  
  
I looked at her, looked at Snape, looked at all of them. "It is good to be back. I am glad to be here."  
  
And I was.  
  
I sat behind my desk. "Where did Professor Dumbledore leave off? Anyone?"  
  
And so it began again. My life. A different one – a very different one – but one that was one worth living. Worth fighting for.  
  
And in a locked drawer in my room, there were pictures of a very different Minerva McGonagall with her husband. That chapter of my life was closed. A new one was opening. In order to understand this new one, the old one must be remembered, but with no more than a fond passing glance and a sigh.  
  
It was closed.  
  
"Open your books, please. We will begin the new chapter." 


End file.
